A Long Road Through The Night

by Rosemary Hodgson

  `Oh, Ray!` Her mother would have said, "I didn`t know where to put myself." Sylvia simply cringed, hardly daring to look at her escort for fear that his amusement might be infectious -- What a fool I am -- I bet I`m the only woman in the world that wouldn`t have known what Miranda meant by Exotic.

  Another more alarming possibility entered her mind as Miranda slithered sinuously out of the glittering bra and flung it high in the air -- Dear God, what if Ray believes I did know all-along, and brought him here on purpose? -- he`ll either think I`m easy, and try something on, or more likely he`ll decide he wants nothing more to do with me if that`s the sort of woman I am -- we were getting on so well, and now I`ve gone and spoilt it all. As the obvious denouement grew ever nearer, she could cheerfully have wished her pestilential neighbour in hell. Already Miranda`s thumbs were tucked into the waistband of the skimpy briefs, beginning slowly to edge them down over her hips, to thunderous yelling and wolf-whistling from the audience. Any second now . . .

  The supreme moment never came. The sound of doors crashing open ban unknown voice roared, `Police! Everybody stand still. This is a raid.`

  Blinking as her eyes adjusted from the darkness, Sylvia clutched at Raymond`s arm, horror-stricken. Whatever must he think, a perfectly respectable man caught apparently enjoying such sleazy entertainment? -- I might just as well say Goodbye to him straight away - he must be wishing he`d never set eyes on me. Already, police officers were moving round the perimeter of the room, lining people up for searching and questioning. Dear God! Sylvia thought -- what would Tom think if he could see this?`

  `Psst! Howway!` A hand grabbed at her arm, pulling her through a dingy red velour curtain beside the stage. Since she was holding on to Raymond, he staggered through as well. Beside them in their impromptu hiding-place, Miranda grinned in apology. `Don`t worry, it`ll be all right. It`s drugs they`re looking for, so everybody`ll be to-search before they get down to this end, and there`s another way out through here.`

  `Drugs?` Sylvia suppressed the urge to scream.

  Her amazement clearly surprised Miranda. `Wey-aye. Can you not smell it? There`s loads of `em that`s on-it in here – grass, mostly.`

  So that accounted for the peculiar aroma Sylvia had noticed. `They`ll have the front and back surrounded, surely? How can we get out?`

  `There`s another door they don`t know about. The empty house next door belongs to my boss, and its front-door`s round the corner in Surtees Street. If you go out that way, they`ll never know yous were in here.`

  Miranda rushed them along a dingy passage under the stage, and down narrow stone stairs leading into a complex of cellars. Through a half-open door Sylvia caught a glimpse of a central-heating boiler roaring contentedly, before she was dragged ever onwards. `This way!`

  The final room, stacked high with junk, seemed to offer no visible exit. `What are we doing down here? They`ll find us when they search the place,` Sylvia protested.

  But already Miranda was dragging aside a clutter of boards and empty boxes, to reveal a small doorway hidden behind the rubbish. `That`s one good thing about having a bent boss – he`ll always have a bolt-hole somewhere or another. You`ll have to get down on your hands and knees, though.`

  We can`t go this way -- we`ll get filthy-dirty, crawling through all this muck, Sylvia thought in horror. But the mere idea of Paul`s face as he read the newspaper headlines: "MUSEUM WIDOW HELD IN STRIP-CLUB DRUG RAID", persuaded her there was no alternative. On all-fours, she shuffled her way through the door and moved aside to let Raymond follow -- some night-out this`s turned out to be -- if I was him, I would never speak to me again.

  As they dusted themselves down with gloves and handkerchiefs, Miranda muttered a brief, `Good luck!` before bolting the door behind them. Noises from behind it suggested that she was pushing the rubbish back into place, so that any search would not reveal the secret exit.

  `What now?` Sylvia enquired, shivering in the sudden cold of the deserted building.

  A clicking sound broke the silence, and the pale flame of Raymond`s cigarette-lighter provided enough illumination to make walking safe. `Up the stairs, and into the house. We`ll use the back-door and go out through the yard, just in case.`

  `What if there`s no way out?`

  `There`s bound to be. Terrace-houses like this always have yards and back-lanes`

  Sylvia brushed ineffectively at the dust on her skirt, trying not to laugh at a cluster of cobwebs in Raymond`s hair. `We can`t walk about the streets like this. We look like a couple of tramps.`

  `Good job it`s dark, then. Come on, before they suss where we`ve gone.` They had to walk carefully, both for safety`s sake in the near-darkness and because the bare treads of the stairs might transmit noise giving away their hiding-place.

  In the kitchen, Raymond peered out of a grimy window dimly-lit by a street-lamp beyond the yard wall. `It`s okay, the coast`s clear. Don`t run, though. If we do, they`ll be suspicious. We`ll just saunter down to the end of the back-lane as if everything was normal.`

  Strung-up with nervous excitement, Sylvia giggled. `You sound like that TV comedian that used to say "Just act natural", even when the most ridiculous things were happening.`

  `It`s our best bet. There`s a taxi-rank at the end of the next street. We`ll get a cab to St. Paul`s Terrace, then walk back to your place from there.`

  Given the chill of the night and their unkempt appearance, the idea did not appeal. `Can`t we go straight to the flat? Why do we have to get out before we`re there?`

  Raymond frowned. `I`m just wondering whether the Law might quiz local taxi-drivers about fares they picked-up here, round here about this time. You don`t want a posse of flatfoots turning up on your doorstep, surely?`

  Contemplating the phantom headlines again, Sylvia agreed that she did not, and they followed Raymond`s plan. At the top of St. Paul`s Terrace, he paid-off the taxi and watched it out of sight round the corner before grabbing her arm. `Right, he`s gone. Come on, before we freeze to death.`

  With a safe distance between them and the night-club, Sylvia began to see the funny side of things as she fell into step beside him. `What a carry-on! I feel like a spy or something, skulking round back-lanes like this.`

  Back at her flat, they closed the door, looked each other full in the face for the first time since Miranda`s show started, then collapsed on the sofa, in fits of laughter. `Oh, God!` Sylvia exclaimed at last, brushing tears of hilarity from her cheeks. `I`m so sorry, Ray. Whatever must you think of me, taking you to a place like that? When she said she was a dancer, I took her word for it. God`s honest truth, I didn`t know.`

  `It was worth it, for the laugh alone.` To her relief, he appeared genuinely amused. `It`s the most entertaining night-out I`ve had in years.`

  `I bet it`ll be a long time before you want another one like it. I`ll kill Miranda stone-dead when I see her!` Sides aching, Sylvia fought to regain control, and almost succeeded.

  Ashamed to show her face outdoors the following morning, for fear anyone might connect her with the raided club, Sylvia was glad it was Sunday -- no need to go to work, or the shops, so it would be a good chance to chuck-out more of Tom`s stuff. So many boxes gone-through already, and still several still to go. Would the job never be finished?

  Right at the bottom of the first box, beneath more self-build magazines, she uncovered a manila folder tied shut with pink tape - What a queer place to keep this -- was Tom trying to hide it from me? Then she remembered that these things came from his home-office-desk, and that she had packed them herself when moving out of the museum flat -- So much for making mysteries out of nothing -- pull yourself together, Sylvia Brandon!

  The folder contained a miscellany of letters, some from former workmates, some connected with an investment he had never taken up, the remainder mostly business-correspondence. Right at the bottom of the heap, one more envelope remained. With no realistic hope of finding anything significant, she pulled out the contents, feeling a sudden leap of the heart at what her search had unco
vered -- a photograph, of a smiling woman, and a baby apparently a few months old. On the back of the picture, a caption: "Danny and me, Easter 1978."

  The accompanying note said everything, and yet nothing. "The baby was a boy, as you`ll see from the photograph. I`ve got settled here now, and just wanted to let you know where I am, in case of need. Don`t tell anybody else, though, not even Sylvia, for obvious reasons. Just your secret and mine, for always. Thanks for everything, Tom, but I think this had better be Goodbye. I`ll never forget you, though. God bless you. Elly."

  Hands shaking, Sylvia laid the letter and photograph on the corner-table under the lamp, staring at them in silence, her mind awash with confusing images. "Don`t tell Sylvia:" -- that sounded ominous enough, even without the rest of the note. "Just your secret and mine, for always... I`ll never forget you." Once again, she was forced to contemplate the certainty that Tom and Eleanor had been more than friends. "Thanks for everything..." In which case, was Daniel his son after all?

  Too infuriated for tears, Sylvia crumpled the note and was about to hurl it into the rubbish-sack, until a sudden flash of sense riveted her eyes on Eleanor`s words: "Just wanted to let you know where I am". Here in her hand, she held the first solid clue by which Daniel Franks might be traced, and she had almost thrown it away in a fit of temper. Smoothing out the paper, she read the address at the head of the letter: "223-C, De la Warr Crescent, Bexhill-on-Sea." -- Yes! Got you at last, you conniving bitch! -- Now we`ll see what you`ve got to say for yourself.

  Without leaving enough time to lose her nerve, Sylvia grabbed pen and paper, writing rapidly and without revision: "I understand you knew my late husband, Tom Brandon, and I need to speak to you urgently. It`s imperative you reply at once." Fortunately she had stamps to hand. Forgetting her anxiety about publicity surrounding the raid, she literally ran down the stairs and along the road to the postbox before she had time to change her mind

  Subsequent cooler-headed reflection cast doubts on the value of her discovery. Easter 1978 was almost eighteen years ago. It was more than likely that Eleanor had moved on since then. But whoever lived there now might just possibly have been given a forwarding-address for late-arriving mail, she told herself, ignoring the voice of reason - after eighteen years? -- some hopes!

  THIRTEEN

  It was almost a week before an envelope addressed in an unfamiliar hand dropped through her letterbox. Snatching it up eagerly, she was disappointed by the postmark -- I don`t know anybody in Hastings. But her first surmise had been correct – the enclosed letter was from De la Warr Crescent in Bexhill, though not from Eleanor. `There used to be a Mrs. Franks living here, but next-doors said she got married again a few years ago and moved away to London, sorry, don`t know what part."

  With a sigh, she stuffed the letter back into the envelope. It was a pity that the person nosey enough to open a stranger`s letters instead of handing them back to the Post Office had not pushed their enquiries to the extent of providing a married-name. Without that, she would never find Eleanor -- any friends she`s made in London aren`t going to know what she used to be called before.

  Disheartened, she ate dinner listlessly and was halfway to the Town on the bus before a startling fact dawned on her, concerning Eleanor Franks. "Next-doors said she got married again." So here was somebody else who could remember Danny`s mother – might they also recall the name she had married into?

  The instant she arrived home, she put pen to paper again, and ran to the postbox a second time, hopeful but not counting on a result. For one thing, next-door was ambiguous – perhaps she should have written to 221A or B, not 223. In any case, the present occupiers would probably not have the information she wanted, or might decide to ignore the demand from a total stranger -- Oh, please, God, let them reply -- I`ve got to find out somehow where Eleanor Franks is.

  For more than a fortnight Sylvia awaited every postal-delivery with special interest, ripping open any unrecognised envelopes eagerly. She was congratulated on having definitely won a money-prize in some Draw she had not entered, invited to spare the feelings of her loved ones at a time of sadness by pre-arranging her own funeral, and made to feel guilty by various charities more or less demanding that she send fifteen pounds to help whatever good cause they represented. But as yet, nothing from De la Warr Crescent.

  When she had finally given up hope and ignored the post until dinner-time, a badly-typed envelope – again postmarked Hastings – took her by surprise. At last! -- I wonder why they`ve taken so long.

  The reason was that Number 223 had been unoccupied while under refurbishment. The new tenants knew nothing of Eleanor Franks or her son, but had had the good sense to make enquiries among their neighbours: "They don`t know where she went, but they think her new name might be Harris, or something." The Or-Something rather spoiled the effect, for without a particular area of London to focus on, the information was probably valueless -- If they`d known what part she moved to, I could`ve tried the phone-book. But how many Harris-or-Somethings would the entire London directory contain? The time and expense involved in contacting them all was too daunting to contemplate.

  `So I`m no further forward,` she reported to Delia on her next visit. `Sometimes I think I`ll never get to the bottom of this business.`

  `What about doing what Paul did to find Harland`s? Advertising, I mean – in the "London Evening Standard" or somewhere.`

  Because she had no better ideas of her own, Sylvia gritted her teeth, ignored the expense and decided to take Delia`s advice -- If I don`t find out the truth, I`ll never be at peace.

  The advertisement must be drawn up with care, though. How could she express Harris-or-Something in a form to which readers might relate? Mention must be made of Newcastle and Bexhill, but what about the wording of the remainder? Phrasing it as Will-hear-something-to-her-advantage would invite a spate of replies from impostors by making people aware that money was involved. Any mention of the name Brandon might put the now-remarried Eleanor on her guard, ensuring she did not reply for fear of resurrecting an unwanted involvement.

  Eventually she opted for "ELEANOR FRANKS, possibly known as Harris. Formerly of Newcastle-on-Tyne and Bexhill-on-Sea in 1977, believed now in London. Will she or anyone knowing her whereabouts make contact urgently." The details given could not fit many people, surely, but for safety`s sake she would have the hoped-for responses directed to a box-number.

  Nothing to do now but sit and wait.

  In the days following insertion of the advertisement, Sylvia could not settle to anything, her mind whirling . Despite her care in wording it, perhaps people would assume money was involved and reply in droves. London was a big place, so the "Evening Standard" must have millions of readers. Her horrified imagination envisaged fleets of mail-vans disgorging sack after sack of letters on her doorstep -- oh God, no! -- that couldn`t possibly happen, could it? She tried to reassure herself that it was far more likely nobody at all would reply, in which case advertising had been an expensive waste of money.

  Ten days later, the postman handed her a single fat envelope which she found herself reluctant to open. From its weight there had clearly been several replies. One of them might be the key to unravelling the mystery of Eleanor Franks, or all of them might simply be time-wasters. She drew a deep breath to psyche herself up, tore open the envelope and decanted eight smaller ones on to the dining-table.

  The first was an unashamed try-on: "I might know where she is. What`s it worth?" Two others mentioned knowing an Eleanor who came from the North, but neither of the surnames bore any resemblance to Harris-or-Something.

  The fourth was from a detective-agency, offering to look for Eleanor, at a price. Three had been sent by assorted members of the public who knew nothing whatever about Eleanor Franks, but apparently felt compelled to offer advice about other sources where Sylvia might enquire further.

  She sat with the last remaining envelope in her hands for what seemed a long time -- I daren`t open it -- what if it`s just rubbish,
like all the others? The disappointment would be unbearable. What she needed was someone to be with her while she read the letter. But Delia and Paul were at work, and it would be unfair to involve Patty – the twins were fractious with German Measles, and the pregnant collie due to whelp any day now. Miranda would be fast asleep after the previous night`s stint at the Miracasa, so waking her for such a feeble reason would be crass - "I`ve got this letter, and I daren`t open it." -- how nerdy is that?

  Ashamed of her weakness, she pushed the envelope into her bag and set out for her friend Jenny`s house in search of moral support. Predictably, Jenny erupted with excitement. `Oh, Sylv! How could you bear not opening it? I`d have been inside it in a second.`

  `Don`t forget I`ve already had seven disappointments.`

  `Let me do it, then. If it`s just more rubbish, you won`t need to bother reading it.` Jenny tore open the envelope, pulled out a letter and scanned it, with a noticeable change of expression. `What did you say Eleanor`s new name was?`

  `They thought it was Harris, or something, but that`s not much to go on.`

  `It just might be enough.` Jenny handed over the letter. `This one knows an Eleanor Harrison. That could be classed as Or-Something, couldn`t it?`

  That faint glimmer of hope gave Sylvia strength to read on: "I`m not sure whether I know the woman you want or not, but the one I knew used to be a neighbour of mine, only her name`s not exactly Harris. She definitely came from Newcastle, and she had lived at Bexhill as well, but she`s called Eleanor Harrison.`

  Sylvia struggled to come to terms with an upsurge of confused emotions. `I do believe you`re right, Jenny. This could be her.`

  Jenny leaned over her friend`s shoulder to read on. `She`s living at a place called The Charter House in St. John`s Wood. Where`s that?`

  `London somewhere, so it fits with what the folks from De la Warr Crescent told me. If she lives in London, in a house with just a name and not a number, she must`ve done pretty well for herself.`